Oh, Christmas Tree

My sister and I have always decorated the Christmas tree together. Its a tradition, like sleeping by the Christmas tree once Christmas break started or racing to move the mouse on our advent calendar every morning. The biggy was to move the mouse on the 24th. Whoever moved the mouse on the 24th was the winner. I remember my Mom once tried to make the other days just as special. She would stick Bible verses and candies in them. But, the 24th reigned the supreme prize no matter how my Mom tried to equalize the days. It was the last day on the calendar, the last move. There were no more moves for an entire year. To make the last move meant you were the winner for an entire year. It was great.

Christmas was great; chopping down a tree with my family, digging out boxes of Christmas decorations, and hanging ornaments while bickering with my sister about which ornament belonged to which of us. Last year we divided up the ornaments one last time. My Mom sent mine with me to Oregon and my sister's with her to Texas. My sister called today to let me know she had hung her ornaments. It was a little sad to think about. I left mine in their box this year and instead hung handmade snowflakes and strands of cranberries (see picture at top). It's a simple tree, but pretty and festive.

This will be my first Christmas away from my family, so I'm feeling a bit nostalgic. I have a feeling I'll sleep by our Christmas tree at some point this December and I might even buy an advent calendar (the cardboard type with chocolate). We'll see.

Mr. Poopy Pants

Hello world. What is wrong with you? Not everything. I find that some of your shops are nice and that massages are quite pleasant. Those aside, I can find some fault.

For example, stolen car windows. Why steal the window? Why not the twirly heating/cooling nobs (those are cool) or the emergency brake? I like the emergency brake, but I'm not completely confident that it does anything except make a great cranking noise as I lift it up.

I need my car window you, Mr. Poopy Pants!

I know that times are hard, but of what value could the car window be? You took nothing else. In fact you left more than you took. Your rusty hatchet, bent hanger, and half smoked cigarette, were they left as a trade?

Forgive me for blaming the whole world for what you did. I have no face to put with this act. I am lashing out and will find time to do breathing exercises later (and I promise I will do them--this will be a non-thing by tomorrow).

Thank you for listening.

Story

I love story. I love the places it can take you to. I love the people you meet in it. Story is a passage way into my imagination. A well written story invades my mind and my imagination comes to the rescue. It makes sense of the parts that my mind doesn't recognize. My imagination constructs wild animals that I've never seen the likes of. It collects the descriptors of a place written about and builds it; either city or small house. I love story.

As I flip through the pages of a book, my imagination either thrills at the entries or sighs and says "I've seen this before." The last book I read made my imagination thrill. There were people "graced" with special abilities, powerful women who charged themselves with fighting for the weaker of their sex, and a romance that wove throughout. This story I couldn't put down. I rushed through it; from front to back. My imagination screaming with delight.

As I drew to the end of this story I felt as if I was about to loose something. Like the last day of a vacation, I couldn't really enjoy the last pages of this book, because I knew it was about to end. Reluctantly I finished. I then searched the few empty pages at the back of the book. I read the front and back flyleaf. I closed the book and turned it over and over in my hands (maybe hoping that a certain amount of turns would open a secret door back into the story I'd just left). I found no hidden messages or doorways, only the tease of a prequel to be written at an unknown time in the future.

This is somewhat ritual whenever I read a great book. I search for the hidden track, desperately looking in the folds of a page or at the bottom of a flyleaf. One or two books have satisfied me in providing a hidden something and thus encouraged this obsessive behavior (Fablehaven and Artemis Fowl). If you recognize those titles, you now know something about me. I read Young Adult Fiction. A genre whose audience is often looking for the prize at the bottom of the box.

This just in...

We're staying in Portland.

Some People Wander

On my first day of kindergarten I wore my hair neatly in braid. It was a long blond braid that cascaded down my back and ended shortly past my bottom. I had on my first day of school outfit, a new backpack, and a look of utter bewilderment. I held my Mom's hand tightly as the yellow school bus slowed to a stop in front of us. I turned and in an act of desperation wrapped my arms around my Mom and began sobbing. My Mom acted with grace in a moment that was potentially embracing for us both. She managed to coax me onto the bus and talk a 5th grader into taking care of me until I found my class.

It is almost scary how little I've changed since then. I have moved from home, traveled, and tried many new things but never without the last act of desperately clinging to what I know. I like to be comfortable. I like having things around me that make me feel safe. I like having people around me that make me feel safe. In the same breath, I recognize the tremendous amount of growth available to me when I move beyond the comfortable and the safe to seek the new and the challenging.

I bring this up because my husband and friends have started discussing the possibility of moving to New Orleans. The need there is still great. With 40% of the homes abandoned or destroyed the neighborhoods look less than inviting. My husband, Dave, looks at this as an opportunity to build community in the places that have been abandoned. He and our friend Kate see it as an opportunity to live out the faith we profess. I see it as another opportunity to find something to cling to and sob.

It's a conflicting feeling, much like the one I had while waiting for the bus over 23 years ago. I am scared. I like my home, my job, and my current community. I'm not looking for adventure, I am not a thrill seeker. But, there is a part of me who wants to go and see. I want to try this out, because there is a potential that this could be good. I mean kindergarten turned out alright. My teacher did yell at me for not knowing how to tie my shoes, but learning how to read was pretty cool.

Beautiful Quote

"There is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and will be lost." -Martha Graham

Lone Black Bird

A saw a lone black bird flying through the drizzly Northwest sky. An infinate blanket of grey clouds hung behind him. He seemed to be heading for something that was more important to him than his personal comfort. For a few seconds he appeared to be alone. Then, slowly the rest of his flock came into view.

While he was alone I imagined that his life was like the weather; dreary, sad, and hard. As his flock came into view, my perspective changed. He was now the leader. He flew out ahead of his group to charge the weather and be the first to confront any dangers. While I watched, part of me wished I was the bird.